It Does the More Enrapture Me
by The Undying Mongoose
Summary: Tv verse. Young Harry is having nightmares, and Bob tries to help him sleep, bringing on unwanted thoughts of his own past. Not slash unless you have a very twisted mind.


**Disclaimer:** The Dresden Files belong to Jim Butcher and the people who adapted his books for TV. And Greensleeves was written by a fifteenth-century poet. I'm not any of those people. Ergo, None of it doesn't belongs to me.  
**Spoilers:** Soul Beneficiary and What About Bob?

**Author's Notes:** This was inspired when I was listening to Cats and remembered that Terrence Mann has a great singing voice. This is also my first Dresden fic, so be gentle. But not too gentle, because I want to know how future Dresden fics could be better.

Hrothbert of Bainbridge could barely remember what it was like to sleep. So long without a mortal body, he had all but forgotten the way it felt to close his eyes and fade into dreams, to feel the roughness of the bed-linens against his skin. Now he spent his nights alone, either in his skull or in his spectral form, wandering the Morningway home. Even since the death of Morningway's brother-in-law, it had been more the former; the darkness inside Hrothbert's skull was nothing compared to the darkness that was building inside the walls of the mansion.

Hrothbert could not be said to recline within his skull, as he had no body with which to do so, but he did the closest thing to reclining that a disembodied mind could manage. He let his thoughts meander, skimming through the events of the day. Young Harry Dresden had asked if his uncle practiced black magic, and Hrothbert had been forced to lie; not something he liked doing, even when he was alive. The problem with lying was, in Hrothbert's opinion, the fact that in order to stick with the first lie, you had to tell more and more lies until even you couldn't remember what actually happened.

But there was no chance of Hrothbert ever forgetting what Morningway had done to Dresden's father. The memory of it, of knowing that it had been in part Hrothbert's knowledge that made it possible, would stay with him for a very long time. Hrothbert had done many horrible things in his life, but that…that was a crime even he had never had the courage—or lack thereof—to commit.

Hrothbert's musings were interrupted by the sound of quiet crying. Hrothbert had never heard anyone cry in the Morningway house before—begging for mercy or pleading for death, certainly, but never honest crying—and the sound intrigued him. He forced himself out of his skull into his more human form.

The sound was coming from young Dresden, who had curled up in a chair by the window and was weeping as he stared out into the night. Hrothbert slowly approached the boy. "Harry? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Dresden looked up. "Hi, Bob." Hrothbert grinned inwardly at the name; it was an absurd diminutive, but one that he had begun to get used to. "I can't sleep."

"Why not?"

"I…had a nightmare." Dresden looked away, embarrassed that a child his age would be afraid of anything. "About my dad."

"Oh." That was right; Dresden had watched his father die. Bad enough that such a crime occurred, more terrible still that the child had seen it. For a moment, Hrothbert considered just telling the boy what happened, but that would do more harm than good. In fact, it would do no good at all, other than ease Hrothbert's conscience. "I'm sorry to hear that. But you should still try to go back to sleep; you'll be very tired in the morning."

"I can't." Hrothbert could see the boy's eyes welling up with tears again. "Whenever I shut my eyes…I see him again."

Hrothbert wished fervently that he could put his arm around the child to comfort him, as his father had done for him so many centuries ago and as Dresden's father must have done only a few short months before. But such acts had been forbidden to him by those who had condemned him. All Hrothbert had left with which to offer comfort was his voice. "You know, Harry," he said, awkwardly, "I had a…a friend once, who had nightmares." To call them nightmares was an understatement; poor, sweet Winifride had been plagued with visions of absolute horror in the days following her resurrection. There had been no one but Hrothbert to comfort her, for everyone else still thought her dead, but it had been enough for them. "I got rather good at making them go away."

"How?" Dresden looked intrigued, but still wary. He hadn't known Hrothbert for very long.

"I would sing to her. It was something her mother used to do, but her mother…was busy, and couldn't do it then." To be specific, Winifride's mother had still been in mourning, but explaining that would have just made things complicated. "So I would do it."

"Did it help?"

"Yes. I believe it did."

"Then…" Hrothbert could see the boy felt awkward, asking what seemed like such a childish thing. Children were more concerned with seeming childish than adults were, most of the time. "Then…would you sing to me? Just to see if it works."

"As you wish. Close your eyes." Dresden did so, and Hrothbert began to sing, as he had in the distant past.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,  
To cast me off discourteously.  
For I have loved you well and long,  
Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy  
Greensleeves was my delight,  
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,  
And who but my lady greensleeves.

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,  
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?  
Now I remain in a world apart  
But my heart remains in captivity…

As he sang, Hrothbert felt himself slipping past the walls he had tried so hard to construct around his painful memories. He could see before him, as if it had been yesterday and not five hundred years before, the gentle curl of Winifride's hair and the laughing sparks in her eyes, the thrill in her face as she mastered some new spell. He could smell the musty paper and acrid ink as he gasped a quill and furiously scribbled the results of an experiment in his Grimoire. And, most painfully of all, he could feel the warmth of Winifride's hand on his, as she sought comfort in his arms from her nightmares.

It had been five hundred years since Hrothbert had felt the touch of flesh or the fire of blood…since he had felt anything at all. He had thought, when his captivity had begun, that he would become accustomed to it over time, but the longer he went without human sensation, the more he desired it. He envied the Dresden boy more than words could ever express.

…If you intend thus to disdain,  
It does the more enrapture me,  
And even so, I still remain  
A lover in captivity…

Hrothbert trailed off. Harry Dresden was unmoving in the chair, snoring softly. His face was peaceful, with no signs of the boy's earlier distress but the faint tracks of tried tears. Hrothbert smiled. Dresden didn't know how fortunate he was to be human. "Good night, Harry," he whispered, then dissolved himself back into his skull.


End file.
